SCENE I.----_Hardy_'s.

_Enter_ Hardy _and_ Villers.

_Villers._

Whimsical enough! Dying for her, and hates her; believes her a Fool, and a Woman of brilliant Understanding!

_Har._ As true as you are alive;--but when I went up to him last night, at the Pantheon, out of downright good-nature to explain things----my Gentleman whips round upon his heel, and snapt me as short as if I had been a beggar-woman with six children, and he Overseer of the Parish.

_Vill._ Here comes the Wonder-worker--[_Enter_ Letitia.] Here comes the Enchantress, who can go to Masquerades, and sing and dance, and talk a Man out of his wits!----But pray, have we Morning Masquerades?

_Let._ Oh, no--but I am so enamour'd of this all-conquering Habit, that I could not resist putting it on, the moment I had breakfasted. I shall wear it on the day I am married, and then lay it by in spices--like the miraculous Robes of St. Bridget.

_Vill._ That's as most Brides do. The charms that helped to catch the Husband, are generally _laid by_, one after another, 'till the Lady grows a downright Wife, and then runs crying to her Mother, because she has transform'd her _Lover_ into a downright Husband.

_Har._ Listen to me.--I ha'n't slept to-night, for thinking of plots to plague Doricourt;--and they drove one another out of my head so quick, that I was as giddy as a goose, and could make nothing of 'em.----I wish to goodness you could contrive something.

_Vill._ Contrive to plague him! Nothing so easy. Don't undeceive him, Madam, 'till he is your Husband. Marry him whilst he possesses the sentiments you labour'd to give him of Miss Hardy--and when you are his Wife----

_Let._ Oh, Heavens! I see the whole--that's the very thing. My dear Mr. Villers, you are the divinest Man.

_Vill._ Don't make love to me, Hussey.

_Enter Mrs._ Racket.

_Mrs. Rack._ No, pray don't--for I design to have Villers myself in about six years.--There's an oddity in him that pleases me.--He holds Women in contempt; and I should like to have an opportunity of breaking his heart for that.

_Vill._ And when I am heartily tired of life, I know no Woman whom I would with more pleasure make my Executioner.

_Har._ It cannot be----I foresee it will be impossible to bring it about. You know the wedding wasn't to take place this week or more--and Letty will never be able to play the Fool so long.

_Vill._ The knot shall be tied to-night.----I have it all here, (_pointing to his forehead:_) the licence is ready. Feign yourself ill, send for Doricourt, and tell him you can't go out of the world in peace, except you see the ceremony performed.

_Har._ I feign myself ill! I could as soon feign myself a Roman Ambassador.----I was never ill in my life, but with the tooth-ach--when Letty's Mother was a breeding I had all the qualms.

_Vill._ Oh, I have no fears for _you_.--But what says Miss Hardy? Are you willing to make the irrevocable vow before night?

_Let._ Oh, Heavens!--I--I--'Tis so exceeding sudden, that really----

_Mrs. Rack._ That really she is frighten'd out of her wits--lest it should be impossible to bring matters about. But _I_ have taken the scheme into my protection, and you shall be Mrs. Doricourt before night. Come, [_to Mr._ Hardy] to bed directly: your room shall be cramm'd with phials, and all the apparatus of Death;----then heigh presto! for Doricourt.

_Vill._ You go and put off your conquering dress, [_to_ Letty] and get all your aukward airs ready--And you practise a few groans [_to_ Hardy.]--And you--if possible--an air of gravity [_to Mrs._ Racket]. I'll answer for the plot.

_Let._ Married in jest! 'Tis an odd idea! Well, I'll venture it. [_Exit_ Letitia _and Mrs._ Racket.

_Vill._ Aye, I'll be sworn! [_looks at his watch_] 'tis past three. The Budget's to be open'd this morning. I'll just step down to the House.----Will you go?

_Har._ What! with a mortal sickness?

_Vill._ What a Blockhead! I believe, if half of us were to stay away with mortal sicknesses, it would be for the health of the Nation. Good-morning.--I'll call and feel your pulse as I come back. [_Exit._

_Har._ You won't find 'em over brisk, I fancy. I foresee some ill happening from this making believe to die before one's time. But hang it--a-hem!--I am a stout man yet; only fifty-six--What's that? In the last Yearly Bill there were three lived to above an hundred. Fifty-six!----Fiddle-de-dee! I am not afraid, not I. [_Exit._